A Night at the Opera
As winter approached last year, my eyesight had deteriorated to the point of legal blindness as a consequence of inattention to slowly thickening cataracts, and I finally sought the services of a specialist. The eye surgeon whom my internist recommended proved universe-class in (and I say this with no exaggeration) leaving me with vision better than at birth. But a delightful bonus of being under his care was his (equally universe-class) ability as raconteur, perfectly exemplified by the following anecdote:
Ernestine Schumann-Heink was an early-twentieth-century Austrian-born contralto/mezzo-soprano noted for the tonal richness and wide range of her voice, and as was often the case with operatic singers of that era, Schumann-Heink was a woman of notable girth. Scheduled to perform at a concert conducted by Toscanini, she arrived a bit late for final rehearsal and struggled to wend her way through the orchestra onto center stage, nearly knocking over several musicians’ stands in the process. “Madame,” asked Toscanini, seeing this, “can you not come through sideways?” To which Schumann-Heink responded, “Maestro, I haff no sideways!”
The least I could do after enjoying that (true) story was to reciprocate, which I did by recounting to him this (also true) story:
During a performance of Lohengrin featuring the great Wagnerian tenor Leo Slezak (the father of the actor/raconteur Walter Slezak), a novice stagehand misread a cue and pulled offstage the swan-boat into which Slezak was to hop following his aria. Upon concluding same, turning about, and finding behind him a bare stage, Slezak looked toward the wings and, bemused and forlorn, shouted, “What time’s the next swan?” (His son used this line as the title of his own memoirs.)
God bless you, good doctor!
[Posted 16 February 2015]
